


dame un beso

by beccabuchanans (vestigialwords)



Series: Olive Branches Universe [4]
Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Choking, Dom Drop, F/M, Hair Pulling, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Possessiveness, Spanking, Unprotected Sex, Verbal Bondage, brat taming, but on-the-fly consent checks, face fucking, oh my god what have i done, unnegotiated dom/sub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25151875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vestigialwords/pseuds/beccabuchanans
Summary: You let your head roll to the side against the metal backrest to find that he’s been staring at you, the corners of his eyes crinkled in a relaxed smile. He crooks his fingers twice, beckoning you toward him.“Ven aquí, guapa, y dame un beso.”It’s an innocent enough request, but you’re feeling cheeky. The words slip off your tongue before you can catch them, “make me.”
Relationships: Horacio Carrillo/Reader
Series: Olive Branches Universe [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822000
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56





	dame un beso

**Author's Note:**

> Spanish weirdness is L2 learner error so corrections/improvements are welcome. :) 
> 
> Originally posted [HERE](https://mandoplease.tumblr.com/post/620941370028343296/i-often-wonder-how-carrillo-would-take-to-brat) on tumblr.

Carrillo is a senior officer in the Colombian National Army. The man runs an elite squad of soldiers handpicked from across the country. He’s accustomed to barking orders and being obeyed, but he leaves that side of himself at work as much as he can. After all, it was the way you had never been intimidated that drew him to you in the first place; how you were never afraid to disagree with him even though you’ve seen him at his darkest (not a pretty picture). He’s your lover, not your commander, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Then again.

Work is over for the week. You made your weekly semi-move into his home a few hours earlier, used your key to let yourself into the house. You had been greeted by a melange of spices floating on the air and a glass of wine waiting for you on his kitchen counter. The two of you took dinner on the patio, plucked a ripe piece of fruit from the tree he shares with his neighbors for dessert, and let the conversation lull into comfortable silence as the sun retreated behind the mountains. 

You let your head roll to the side against the metal backrest to find that he’s been staring at you, the corners of his eyes crinkled in a relaxed smile. He crooks his fingers twice, beckoning you toward him.

 _“Ven aquí, guapa, y dame un beso.”_

It’s an innocent enough request, but you’re feeling cheeky. The words slip off your tongue before you can catch them, “ _make me_.” 

Carrillo chuckles and reaches for your arm but you twist away from his grasp, jump out of the chair and dart out of his reach with a grin. One of his hands swings out to swat half-heartedly at your ass, but the second his feet hit the bricks under your feet, you bolt inside the house and toward the stairs with a shriek of laughter.

It’s not that he’s upset, but if it’s a chase you’re after, he’ll oblige.

You make it as far as the top of the stairs before one of his hands curls tight around your wrist. He overtakes you and stalks to the end of the short hallway, dragging you behind him without so much as a glance back. The door of his bedroom is ajar and he kicks it open, throwing you face-first into the solid wall just inside. He steps behind you, one arm wound around your stomach, a warm hand at your throat.

“I hunt people for a living,” he reminds you as his thumb presses into the soft skin of your pulsepoint. “Don’t run if you don’t want to get caught.” 

Something different, something new, weaves through the shadows of his voice as it coils into the dark recesses of your mind. You’ve seen him in devastating action many times, lingered at the periphery of his interrogations. He’s not always the generous, kind man you find under this roof. At times he can be downright brutal, even cruel, and you’d be lying if you said you never wondered how that energy would manifest in pursuit of a different kind of goal. It isn’t something you’ve ever talked about, but you had your suspicions it wasn’t hiding far beneath his polished surface.

Your struggle—a generous word for the half-hearted squirm you attempt in the narrow space between his body and the wall—stalls as he grinds his interest against your curve of your ass. He nuzzles into your hair and you feel the hot exhale of his breath against your cheek as he takes a step back from the wall. The firm grip around your neck gives you no option but to follow as he walks you back to the center of the floor. 

“Get on your knees.”

“Get fucked,” you spit back over your shoulder.

He hesitates. The vibrating tension in his frame bleeds out, fading into background noise and the hand at your throat drops to your waist. He prods you in the side, a silent request to face him. If you had been waiting for a sign that you could trust this man right here, now, that was it. So you turn your head just enough to meet his eyes, wet your lips and wink. 

He recovers quickly.

Before you can register his movement, the solid line of his shin asserts itself behind your knees as he yanks you back by your neck at the same time. His grip isn’t so severe that he cuts off your air, but your spine arches with the pressure as he wrenches the ends of your body in opposite directions until you have no choice but to drop to the plush carpet beneath you. He towers over you, bending at the waist as the hand at your throat forces you to look up into his dark eyes. 

He’s _huge_. Has he always been this big?

“Not me who’s getting fucked tonight.” 

His words seep under your skin, setting off a chain reaction of pleasing explosions licking out from your belly and buzzing at your fingertips. You can’t help the whimper that escapes from you any more than the grin that spreads across his face. You scramble at his belt without breaking eye contact. Your practiced hands dance over the buckle and zipper without looking, and you yank his boxers down just far enough to free him. His hand shifts from your throat to card through the hair at the top of your head as he straightens. He tugs at your scalp, arranging you under him as he takes himself in hand in front of your face. It’s an angle you know well, not the most comfortable, but the one that lets you take him deepest. 

“You know what to do, sweetheart” he says, the tip of his cock nudging against your lips.

It’s automatic and almost humiliating, how your jaw drops open for him in filthy invitation. He wastes no time pressing past your lips, sliding like velvet over the wet curl of your tongue, then further, well past the point of comfort, but gentle, probing. Your eyes well up with the effort of suppressing your gag reflex as he eases himself out. There’s just enough time to take a breath before he pushes back in, flirting with the edges of your limit. He holds your head steady as he thrusts in and out, but you do what you can with what freedom he gives you–hollow your cheeks, let the saliva coat his length, moan around him, flick your tongue against the tip of him when he retreats. Your hands fly to him, one clutches at the fabric of his khakis, the other wraps around the last few inches of him that don’t fit in your mouth. Your eyes flutter shut, and he jerks the hand clutched at the top of your head. 

“Open your eyes,” his voice is threaded thick with authority that you associate more intimately with the battlefield than the bedroom. You’re outside of his chain of command. His commands are guidelines, not gospel. 

Usually.

“ _Open them!_ ” he grits with a snap of his hips, shoving past your hand and all the way into your mouth. Your eyes fly open in shock as you choke around him. Both hands curl into tight fists in the fabric of his pants as the tip of your nose is forced deep into the coarse hairs at the base of him. You can’t even imagine what he sees as you crane your neck up with the millimetres of slack he allows you, tears welling in your wide eyes, lips pulled tight around him, drool dribbling out the corners of your mouth as he rocks firmly into your throat. But the next time his voice drips down through you like honey in the dim light, his tone is reverent, even as his words aren’t. 

“Look at me when I’m fucking you, gorgeous.” 

The noise that rips out of you might have been a moan, a groan, a sob, or more likely, a mix of all three. This shouldn’t be so sexy, captive on your knees, fighting visceral discomfort as you battle your throat’s instincts to reject him. And yet, his head slumps forward against his chest and the muscles in his thighs tremble with the effort of holding himself upright against the waves of vibrations reflecting back and forth between your bodies, a feedback loop of infinite pleasure that settles between your legs with throbbing urgency.

You make quick work of the button of your own jeans and bury your hand inside your panties for a modicum of relief, moaning when your fingers slide into your wet folds and make contact with your clit. His eyes snap open and a roars erupts from his chest. 

He tears you off his cock and you sputter back with a cough, throwing both hands back to catch yourself. He reaches down for the arm that had just been stuffed down your pants, curls his thumb into the pressure point underneath your bicep and hauls you to your feet.

“That’s _mine_.”

Carrillo is a flurry of motion in front of you, around you, so quick that you can barely keep up to cooperate with him as he strips your shirt over your head, jeans and underwear peeled down your legs, bra unlatched and thrown across the room as though it had offended him. He shoves you toward his bed and you stumble forward, nearly falling flat onto the mattress.

“Hands and knees, honey.” 

You try your best—you really do, but you’re still reeling, brain slow and thick with the sweet molten molasses of arousal. It’s not enough for him though, insistent hands molding your body into shape make that abundantly clear. Solid palms at your back bend you over his sheets. A firm grip wraps around one of your knees, spreading you apart until the cool air of his bedroom laves against the wetness pooling between your legs. Warm hands tangle with yours and curl your fingers around the slats of his headboard and squeeze, a silent command, clear as day. Your weight is split between your forearms and knees, ass on display, and you drop your head into the sheets when he rewards your compliance by running two thick fingers along your slit.

“Don’t move.” 

You sob as he draws his hands away to stand at the side of the bed and turn your head to watch him. The polo is first, pulled carefully over his head, and he turns away from the bed, just slightly as his fingers work the fabric, folding it neatly against the nightstand with literal military precision. His undershirt is next and thick cords of solid muscle shift beneath his skin as he repeats the process with the white cotton. The ghost of a smirk flits across his face when you whine, keening backwards with an arched back, mindlessly seeking contact that you don’t find. Still, his focus doesn’t waver as he rolls the shirt into a tight cylinder and places it carefully next to the polo on the nightstand. 

He whips his belt through the loops at his waist, and the soft snap in the quiet room sends a sharp shudder down your spine. Your head shoots up from where it’s buried in your arms. He stalls for a moment, slack-jawed as his eyes rake down your body, your ass in the air, bare thighs exposed. He holds the worn leather in his hands for a moment, stares down at it considering. His shoulders tighten and a thrill rockets through you. 

Is that something you want? You’re honestly not sure. If he says that he wants to, you don’t have it in you to deny him, but—

He meets your gaze, expression soft and questioning as his eyes search you for direction. You shake your head, the tiniest movement, and he actually seems to sigh in relief, tension bleeds out of his shoulders before he looks away, returning to his task, serious and stoic as though you aren’t stripped naked, dripping with need, writhing and desperate on his sheets. As though he’s not rock hard and leaking just three feet away from you. 

The belt, he rolls into a coil, his socks a neat ball. Next are his khakis, pushed slowly down his legs. He takes the time to fold the legs to preserve the crease down the front, even has the audacity to reach into his closet for a hanger. 

It’s too much and you let go with one of your hands to snake down toward your clit again for some relief. There will be consequences for disobeying him, you know this, but this lack of contact is worse than any torture. You barely have time to graze your fingers over the tight bundle of nerves before his palm cracks against your skin. 

He’s smacked your ass in the bedroom before, cheeky love taps paired with a boyish grin, but this is different. You cry out as your body thrashes against your own hand, the sudden sting twisting tight with the jolt of pleasure from your clit. When the second blow lands, you have to pull your hand away to catch yourself as the biting force of his strike knocks you off balance. The third crack lands on the other side of your ass and you slump into the mattress, bury your face in the soft fabric below you with a sob.

Carrillo grabs your hair and yanks, straining your neck muscles taut as he forces your face up to look up at the headboard. You throb beneath him, empty and wanting, vibrating with wild desperation. 

“Do I need to tell you what that was about?” 

“Fuck you,” you snarl through gritted teeth, but your hands shake as they curl back around the wooden slats above you. He hums his approval into the nape of your neck and rewards you with a gentle kiss at your hairline before pushing himself up to his knees. 

The mattress shifts as he arranges himself behind you and drags the thick head of his cock through your folds, huffing with pride as he collects the wetness he finds between your legs. He lines himself up with your center and runs his hand down your sides until they settle just at your lower back. Your breath leaves you in a weak moan as he enters you, inch by glorious, agonizing inch until he bottoms out, rolls gently against you, testing and adjusting the angle of your body beneath him. 

He draws back just as slowly as he pressed in and you sob into the soft fabric of his sheets as he rocks into you, languid and unrushed, with all the patience and discipline befitting a man of his rank. It’s intoxicating and frustrating and the most you can do, between your hands curled around the bars above your head and his vice grip at your hips is nudge yourself back, ever-so-slightly, but it’s enough. With the small shift, his cock presses tight against the spot deep inside you that never fails to fill you with fire, and your voice tumbles out of your mouth in a pathetic whimper. 

Something breaks inside him and he drops his weight onto you without warning. The air rushes from your lungs as he presses your entire body flat into the mattress, snapping his hips against you with abandon. His body crashes into yours as you struggle to draw in a breath under him, but once he’s started he doesn’t stop. Your back is arched, almost uncomfortably as he hammers into you so deep you swear you feel him behind your burning eyes. Your fingers tense around the bars above you as your body battles the conflicting instincts of running from the assault and begging for more, _more_. He doesn’t leave you much choice in the matter.

“Horacio, _please_ ,” you whine, your entire body teetering on the violent edge. The beginnings of devastating shudders seize in the depths of your core, walls fluttering and clamping down around him, frantic, aching, shaking for everything he has. 

And he’s gone. He retreats almost entirely from you, an excruciating abyss left inside you in his wake. A satisfied groan rumbles out of his chest when you sob wordlessly into your forearms. He leans over you, hands landing either side of your arms so he cages you beneath him with his hands and knees. He nuzzles past your hair until his mouth is just next to your ear, his voice rumbling through you like an earthquake. 

“What did you call me?” 

“…Carrillo—” 

It’s the wrong answer. You knew it would be. 

He snatches your face in his hand, squeezing tight at your cheeks until your mouth falls open to relieve the pressure. Frustrated tears stream down your cheeks as you try to grind back against him. He’s too quick, pulls away from you as you buck. 

“Close, cariño. Try again”

“Please—” 

He runs the pads of his fingers over your bottom lip, and you dart your tongue out against his fingertips in hopes that he’ll break. He gives the tiniest of involuntary jerks inside you, just enough to tease, to keep you from coming down from your high, but not nearly enough to be satisfying in the slightest. It’s a small victory, but he grabs your jaw again, two of his fingers curling behind your bottom teeth, heel of his palm under your chin as he throttles your head back. 

“Please, who?” 

Heat flares in your cheeks, but you’d say anything, _do anything_ , if it meant he would move again. Your voice rasps through your shredded throat, the word twisted and muffled against his hand, “ _sir_.” 

“Good girl,” he exhales, loosening his grip just enough to shove two of his fingers in your mouth as he plunges back into you, pounding into your body like he’s trying to tear you in half. He’s everywhere, consuming, devouring, taking. His strong chest pins you tight to the bed, thick fingers pressing against your tongue to muffle your screams, free hand kneading your breasts, cock burrowing so deep it would probably hurt if you weren’t so unbearably desperate for him. 

Your orgasm drags you under the surface, consuming and thick, drowning you in a bright fog that wracks your body with wave after wave of violent ecstasy.

It takes some time for your senses to come back online, as the aftershocks roll through you, slow and sweet and sated. Your eyes are clamped shut but you let him nudge you over onto your back. The mattress rises as he stands, soft footfalls crossing the room, and then a hiss of water from the tap. Then he’s back, the mattress dipping as a warm washcloth presses softly against your cheek. You know you must be a wreck, bruises blooming at your hips, face covered in tears and saliva, hair an unruly mess on the pillows, his cum leaking out between your legs. So you reach up to grab his hand and your eyes flutter open to thank him for his thoughtfulness. 

You’ve never seen him so scared. 

His body trembles from head to toe, eyes wide and panicked as they scan over you like he’s checking you over for injuries. He probably is. The muscles in his face are tight, jaw clenched, lips pressed in a thin line between clenched teeth. As soon as he notices you watching him, he jolts his hand back like he’s been electrocuted. His face is flush with shame and you see the apology flash across his face a split second before he opens his mouth. 

“Shh—” you cut him off before he can speak and reach out to stroke down the side of his face. He gasps at the tender contact, nuzzling against your palm and you can’t help but smile at him. “ _Ven aquí, guapo, y dame un beso._ ” 

He allows himself to be gathered into your arms and his entire body sags into you with relief when your lips finally meet. 


End file.
